


long live the king

by eyemoji, fab_ia



Series: le roi est mort [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Fae AU, Faery AU, Fantasy AU, Mentioned Character Death but it's no one we care about, Multi, Will update tags as story progresses, fae-u, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 01:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13964667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: Burnt bread is sweet and crisp letters fly. Some things are not what they seem.A brother is lost, a sister will be found. Two siblings have been raised in the wrong world.Two vipers of different spots lie in wait for four lost souls. A woman with eyes that drip rubies sits on a throne she never earned. Andhekeeps on smiling.Le roi est mort, vive le roi,Do not go to the forest.Douglas Eiffel goes to the forest.





	long live the king

She wakes before the dawn. The air is cool as she stretches, slides out of bed, and pads over to the writing desk nestled in the corner of her box-like room. There’s barely any space to move, even with her small frame, and her hip bumps against the sharp corner of a bedpost as she crosses over. Her legs buckle, and as she catches herself with steady palms, she just barely manages to rein in a cry of pain with a frown. It’s alright. She’s used to this sort of thing; the privacy afforded by the darkness is worth every bruise. 

 

A quick glance out of her window is enough to make a rough guess of the time. It's early, but not quite early enough-- there’s likely only a few hours before the sun will begin to rise; she’s overslept. There ought to be enough time for her to finish, but only just; nimble fingers fumble to light the already half-burned candle that sits on the corner of her desk. It gives off just enough light to see by, just enough to find the quill she'd abandoned the evening before beside a blank roll of parchment. 

 

Heaving a sigh, she dips the nib of the quill in the inkwell and begins to write in a neat, flowing cursive. The details of the throne room, the courtyard and the highest tower. The exact number of rubies compared to sapphires or emeralds on the crown. Big events from the village recently. All things mundane and dreadfully  _ human.  _ If it was up to her, she wouldn’t be wasting time on these inane details; half her energy goes towards just keeping track of them all. For an entry-level scribe, it’s surprisingly easy for her to get all the gossip and intimate details that she needs if she’s to fulfill her quota consistently. And she  _ does  _ meet that quota. It’s been a long time since she last...protested, and the severity of the consequences has not faded in the slightest from her mind. 

 

The regular  _ scritch-scratch _ of the quill fades into a comfortable background hum as she slips into the easy rhythm of penning the loops and whorls. Her work is flawless; there’s not an inkblot or misshapen letter in sight. 

 

This is only to be expected. She’s trained for it, after all.

 

When the last ‘a’ in her name is finished, she sets down the quill with a sigh, looking once more out of the window. The rosy glow effused across the lowest clouds confirms that she's made it, timed her writing perfectly so she can watch the creeping sunrise. The horizon sees the sky meet the water and there’s a painful tug in her chest when the reds and oranges begin to illuminate the waves. If she tries hard enough, she can feel the brisk spray splattering across her face, the frothy foam tumbling over her shoulders against a backdrop of distant rocks. Above her, a bird flies with intention alongside the cliff face.

 

Closing her eyes and leaning back in the seat, she fidgets with the hem of her nightdress in mild discomfort. It’s loose and flowing but still undeniably  _ wrong _ , every gentle brush of the fabric against her skin excruciating in a way that, even with all her lessons, she can never quite articulate. 

When she opens her eyes again, there's a scratching at her window, and she almost loses her balance in her haste to throw the sash open. The bird will not come in unless she lets it, she knows; if she’s quick enough, she can tie the parchment to its leg and send it off without withstanding its beady, unblinking stare. It looks at her now with that gaze, unflinchingly authoritative in its very perch upon her windowsill, glossy feathers exuding competence in a mirror of the person she knows its mistress to be. It’s a quality she’s long given up trying to reflect in herself.

 

Her fingers shake as she wraps the twine around the bird’s ankle. Per schedule, it’s been a month since the bird’s last visit, and tensions within the kingdom have been on the rise since; from the vague threats of invasion from every corner imaginable to the impending expiration of the ailing king, the stakes surrounding the information she collects can only be higher than ever before. If what she provides isn’t sufficient…

 

She tries not to dwell on that.

 

The color of the sun turns colder as she watches the bird’s rapidly retreating form. She can no longer see the waves.

* * *

 

“Yaah!”

 

The clash of steel on steel rings out throughout the yard as Minkowski takes deep, ragged breaths, eyes fixed firmly on her opponent, arms shaking from exertion. Rivulets of sweat worm their way down her body; the layers of soft leather enclosing her doing nothing to alleviate the pounding heat. The woman on the other side of her blade has the advantage, with the way their swords are locked; she’ll have to be faster and smarter if she’s to win this fight. 

 

“Had enough yet? Feel free to start begging for mercy.” The woman’s voice is mocking, teasing, and Minkowski growls.

 

“Enough? We’re only getting started. And besides, begging isn’t really my thing,” 

 

“You never know until you try. I think you’d like it.”

 

They circle each other, on guard, until Minkowski senses an opening. She lunges forward, jabbing, parrying, until she’s given herself the space she needs to plant a foot squarely in the middle of the other woman’s stomach, sending her tumbling backwards while she spins with the momentum to slash out with her sword arm. The blade rushes to meet the sword rising from the ground with a solid  _ clang, _ and the vibrations send goosebumps up and down Minkowski’s arms. 

 

“I wouldn’t beg you if my life depended on it.”

 

With the flat of her blade, she aims for the hilt of her opponent's sword and presses down. Twists. For a second, it looks like the maneuver’s about to work-- there’s clear strain in the sweat rolling down the face below her, and the point of her sword is beginning to waver. Any moment now, it could clatter to the floor, along with her dreams of victory. Minkowski allows herself a small smile. Just a few more seconds-- 

 

“Commander!”

 

And just like that, Minkowski’s concentration snaps. In the fraction of a second where she allows her grip to relax, the woman beneath her drives their combined blades up in one fluid motion, springing gracefully to her feet. As Minkowski’s eyes widen in horror, she offers her the shit-eating grin to end all shit-eating grins and curves her sword around in an arc that knocks Minkowski’s blade to the ground. 

 

For a moment, Minkowski can only stare, the woman’s blade pointed straight at her throat, the tip hovering barely centimeters from her neck.

 

“Commander!” The voice that cost her her battle is closer now, and more obviously out of breath. Her eyes slide to the right to take in the wheezing, puffing messenger, doubled over, hands on thighs, peering up through the space between their arms at the two of them. Before she can acknowledge their presence, the woman cuts in,

 

“Say it.”

 

Minkowski brings her attention back to the issue at hand. 

 

“Never.”

 

“ _ Say it. _ Say it, and I’ll let you go.”

 

A wry smile dances across Minkowski’s lips as she sighs and shakes her head. 

 

“What, so future generations can sing songs about how you spared the great Ren é e Minkowski’s life? Not happening.”

 

“The  _ great _ Minkowski? Someone’s got a high sense of her own importance.” She pauses, grin unfading, “Come on. And don’t give me that eye roll.”

 

She blows out her cheeks. “ _ Fine. _ Pay attention, because I’m not saying it twice.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

 

“I, Commander Ren ée Yvonne Minkowski, do hereby proclaim that--”

 

“Commander Minkowski? And-- Commander Bernoulli, sire?”

 

The messenger, now recovered, is looking earnestly up at the two women. Bernoulli doesn’t take her eyes off of Minkowski.

 

“One second, I think we all need to hear the Commander finish that sentence. Go on,”

 

Minkowski ducks her head to hide her smile. 

 

“--do hereby proclaim that Commander Bernoulli is…” she trails off as she catches sight of the messenger’s boots, encrusted with mud takes in the messenger’s disheveled clothing, the urgency in their voice, the telltale blood on their bottom lip from worrying at it too much.

 

“Yes, yes, Commander Bernoulli  _ is… _ ?”

 

Minkowski shakes her head. Gone is the smile that she had been failing to suppress just seconds earlier. Her left hand rises to firmly push away Bernoulli’s sword. 

 

“No. Let them speak.”

 

From the shaky rattle of the messengers breath as they inhale, Minkowski fears the truth even before the words spring into being.

* * *

The acrid smell of burnt  _ and  _ burning bread is heavy in the air and Eiffel grimaces as he turns a loaf over to inspect the bottom. Charcoal. He’s got the feeling that the oven is a little too hot for bread, but he needs to have something cooked and out on display for people to buy. It’s not like anyone expects much more from him since almost everything he’s sold since his shop opened has come out burnt in some way. Good bread days are few and far between.

 

He sighs and frowns at the dough on the table, glaring as though it’s offended him in some way-- which it has: it just won’t _listen_. Maybe he didn’t use enough water? Sighing again, he rubs at his cheek with a hand, brushing a fresh coat of flour across his sun-freckled skin. He’ll work it out later. For now, he needs to fix the display and add the new loaves to the shelves.

 

As he’s rustling through drawers for a piping tip, the door opens and he jumps as a young woman steps through, nose wrinkling as she inhales. “Something’s burning.”

 

“Are you honestly surprised?” Eiffel asks. “Y’know Hera, sometimes I think _this is it,_ _they’re going to turn out great,_ but- bang, black as a slate.” He pours out a thin icing from a bowl into a leather bag, twisting it closed as he continues. “I haven’t worked out what it is yet-- do you s’pose that the rumors about the forest are true? I’m seriously considering selling my soul for an oven charm.”

 

“Don’t joke about that,” she says, grimacing. “Besides, I don’t think even the fae could salvage your bread.”

 

“Ouch.” Eiffel straightens, slapping the bag of icing against his heart, a mock expression of affront on his face. “First of all, rude. Second, don’t tell me you’re one of the superstitious ones. Come on, Hera, I thought you were smarter than that.”

 

Hera flinches.

 

“It’s not superstition; it’s the facts, Eiffel. You of all people should know the stories.”

 

Eiffel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and that’s exactly what they are: stories. C’mon, you know me, darlin’, there’s no one around for ages who loves hearing them more than I do, but that doesn’t mean the court of seals walks among us or anything.”

 

He drops his voice to a lower register when he says that, exaggeration written all over his face as he ices a platter of cakes, hands moving with easy, practiced skill while he quirks an eyebrow at Hera.

 

“You mean the  _ Seelie _ Court?”

 

“Seelie Court, court of seals… same thing. Although, I for one welcome our new seal overlords--”

 

Hera sighs and cuts him off, pointing at the cakes.

 

“These look nice.”

 

“Don’t let their sweet and glossy exterior fool you. The actual cakes are just as scorched as the blasted loaves in the oven.”

 

“At least they  _ are  _ sweet and glossy. Honestly, with the way your breads turn out, I don’t understand how you even have money to spend on so much sugar.” 

 

Eiffel shifts to allow her to take a seat on his right. He works in silence for a few more moments, then responds,

 

“Icing’s a novelty.”

 

Hera doesn’t press him.

 

“Well, what’s the story this time?”

 

Immediately, his face lights up, and Hera nearly laughs in wonder at the animation that’s completely transformed his face. He gestures from cake to cake at the tray between them, pointing out detail after detail as he begins to weave the tale he’s laid out.

 

“A long time ago, in a land far, far away…”

 

A sharp rap at the door brings Eiffel’s tumultuous story to a grinding halt. He exchanges a look with Hera before answering it, the door swinging half off its hinges to reveal a girl clutching a bugle with terrified eyes.

 

“Everyone’s wanted in the square. Immediately.”

 

Hera’s halfway out the door before Eiffel manages to pull on a pair of boots.

* * *

The square is already packed with people by the time Eiffel catches up with Hera. Swallowing, he can’t help but notice the confusion written across nearly everyone’s faces as they all peer around in search of an explanation. Hushed conversations flurry through the crowd-- it’s a little overwhelming, if he’s honest.

 

“You got any idea what’s going on, Hera?” Eiffel asks, wiping his hands on his apron. Hera shakes her head, a few strands of hair falling into her face.

 

“None at all,” she admits. “Although… is that the captain of the guard? She looks-”

 

“Upset? Distressed? Like it’s her wedding day?”

 

“What? No, she looks… I’m not sure. Tense.”

 

Eiffel leans a little closer into her side as he finally catches sight of their kingdom’s captain. Her expression is unreadable, her stony gaze unsettling when accompanied with the sword hanging by her side. Her posture is ramrod straight as she and the accompanying procession stop in the center of the square side-on to Hera and Eiffel. Guards fan out on either side, not so many so as to rous the crowd, but enough to punctuate the message that whatever is about to come out of the captain of the guard’s mouth is serious.

 

“It is with a heavy heart that I call you all here this morning,” she says. “While training this morning, Commander Bernoulli and I received tragic news regarding the current and future state of our kingdom. The news itself is shocking and I understand if you need a moment to take it in.”

 

Eiffel looks nervously over at Hera, whose eyes are intently fixed on Minkowski.  Known throughout the land, it’s something close to breathtaking to see her in person and everyone in the square knows it. The buzz of the crowd increases in volume; if Minkowski is here, then whatever news is about to be delivered is  _ big _ . He slips a hand into Hera’s, squeezing it briefly to ground himself. She squeezes back, gaze unbroken, but he knows her heart is just as much in her throat as his is in his.

 

An impatient citizen from across the square breaks free from the foreboding keeping everybody frozen in their tracks. Their voice slices sharply through the thickened silence of the air, jolts even Minkowski out of her reverie with just one word:

 

_ “Well?” _

 

Minkowski, alone on her podium, takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself, and Hera looks at Eiffel in alarm.

 

“The king is dead.”

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hi it's me here to say that daniel and i are very excited to bring you the first chapter of this thing we've been sitting on for a while.
> 
> if you want to read more about the woman with eyes that drip rubies you can do that in this mini-prequel-thing here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397412
> 
> otherwise, sit back, hold on tight, and get ready for the ride!
> 
> (work tags will be updated as the story goes on.)
> 
> [eyes emoji]


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